


Stage left

by Khalehla



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Euros 2016, M/M, Rivalry, hate fic, mutual understanding, not what it seems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-07-10 11:59:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6984178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khalehla/pseuds/Khalehla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The funny thing was, they’d all been right from the very beginning.</p><p>-<br/>A different type of Steno.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stage left

**Author's Note:**

  * For [agent_declan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_declan/gifts).



> For Deej... you know why... Luv ya!

The funny thing was, they’d all been right from the very beginning.

Bernd didn’t quite understand the thought process or logic behind people’s expectations that just because they’d now been called up to the senior team, things would automatically change.

He’d heard the whispers, they both had, and it made him want to snort in derision at how a collective thinking could get it so very, very wrong, especially when they had it right in the first place.

_They’ll get over it._

_It can’t last forever._

_It’s different in the senior team._

Everyone expected a change, carefully watching them since the friendlies in March, wondering when they were miraculously going to start getting along, studying their every interaction for the slightest hint that they were now _friends,_ or perhaps the closest facsimile that they could muster given their history. Jogi (or some other poor, deluded soul) had even gone so far as try and room them together, thinking that the enforced proximity would melt away the years of rivalry and general dislike.

Marc-André had rolled his eyes in disbelief when he had walked in the room to see Bernd already there, and they’d exchanged a look of understanding at the irony and predictability of the room arrangements. “Someone’s enjoying themself,” the Barcelona keeper deadpanned, “when are they gonna give up?”

“Fuck knows,” Bernd had replied. “Two months of play acting. Fun. _Not_.”

Marc hadn’t even deigned to reply to that, content to flip Bernd off and commence unpacking. But they’d known what was expected off them, completely aware that their careers in the national team hinged solely on their “getting along”, and they’d delivered a worthy performance.

It made Bernd’s lips curl, really, because he had never realised until that point how easy it was to fool a group of people who were desperate to see what they wanted to see anyway. They’d realised pretty quickly that the attention wouldn’t abate until they’d played to the expectations, so without even discussing it, they’d faked enough camaraderie that Köpke had stopped watching them like a hawk, exchanged enough pleasantries that their teammates had stopped giving them either pitying looks or amused glances.

Behind closed doors, however, nothing had changed. They’d perfected the art of occupying the same space but still managing to completely ignore each other’s presence. It was a routine that they could both jump into on auto-pilot now, and the only really frustrating thing about it all was that things were actually perfect _before_ all and sundry had decided to interfere in their relationship.

_They need to get it out of their system._

_That type of tension can’t last._

_How have they not managed to get over it yet?_

And that was the greatest irony of all, that there was nothing to get over, sort out or get out of their system. Oh, they’d tried everything – punched it out, fucked it out, talked it out – but as early as the under21s when Hrubesch had first given them the talking to of a lifetime and they’d actually made a genuine attempt to get along, they’d quickly come to the realisation that this was how they were and that they were okay with it, and they’d be damned if they wasted anymore energy on faking a friendship that didn’t exist.

Except now, this was exactly what they had to do.

“Marco wants to know if you want to go dinner,” Marc advised one evening. It was a rare evening off, and the boys were all intent on making the most of the free time.

Bernd let out an exasperated sigh because _great_ , now they were fielding each other’s social invitations. “Yeah, whatever. Karim wanted to go anyway.”

“I’ll tell them the happy news then.”

Bernd didn’t even register the sarcasm in Marc’s tone.

They’d somehow managed to come down and meet everyone at the same time, but at least it played into their teammates' expectations - which in hindsight was _not_ a good idea considering they’d gotten even more attention the next day.

“You and Marc are getting along well,” Manuel had observed during a break in training.

Bernd internally grimaced, carefully considering what he could say. If it were anyone else, he was sure he could get away with nothing, but Manuel trained with them every day, watched them interact closer than anyone else could; ignoring the question wouldn’t work. “Is that an observation or a question?”

To Bernd’s surprise, Manuel hadn’t reacted the way he had come to expect; instead, the giant blonde had contemplated him for a moment, looked out towards Marc who was talking to the trainers, then back at Bernd.

“Oh you guys are _good!_ ” Manuel suddenly laughed. “None of this is real _at all_ , is it? You guys actually still don’t like each other.”

“It’s what everyone expects,” Bernd shrugged, grudgingly impressed by Manuel’s perceptiveness, “and it keeps Andi and Jogi off our backs.”

“Well _fuck_ , who’d have thought? You guys had us all fooled – _well done!_ ”

Bernd just smirked at the compliment.

But then Manuel’s expression changed from humour to worry in a blink. “Be careful, Bernd, this could back fire spectacularly.”

“I seriously doubt it,” Bernd replied just as seriously.

“Just be careful,” Manuel warned again, “all this indifference and hate isn’t healthy.”

For some reason, knowing that Manuel knew the reality of their situation both relieved their burden and greatly amused them – during goalkeeper training at least they didn’t have to try so hard. It made it easier for them to be civil to each other so that they could conserve their energy for when they _really_ had to put on a show.

“Shkodran and Mario have been staring at us for about an hour now,” Marc-André complained softly, lips barely moving.

Bernd wanted to roll his eyes. “Pass me the water bottle,” he said instead, handing it back to the other keeper after taking a long drink. “Your turn,” he ordered.

Marc does as he is told, not without first raising an eyebrow though. “How do they look now?” he asked after resting the bottle in the space between them.

“Confused. And maybe pleasantly surprised.”

“That should last them for at least a couple of days.”

They’re not surprised when the whispers change shortly after that little interlude.

_There’s something going on._

_I can’t believe they’re actually getting along._

_They just needed to get to know each other better._

If they felt bad about deceiving their teammates like this, it doesn’t last long. They are both ambitious and opportunistic by nature, realistic enough to accept that they needed each other for survival, having no illusions whatsoever regarding their standing within the national team should they fuck up just once.

“I’m going down to breakfast without you,” Marc said one morning. “Try not to trip me when I walk past later.”

Bernd saluted sarcastically; Marc showed him his middle finger.

And so it goes, enter stage left.

**Author's Note:**

> All my fics (including _many more_ Steno stories) will now be locked to registered users only. Signing up to AO3 is free and quick and I hope I can keep sharing these stories with you!  
>  I have a [tumblr account ](https://khalehla.tumblr.com) for my writings and random ficlets. If you have a question about this or any of my other stories, come say hi :)
> 
>  
> 
> ==  
> Disclaimer: I write **_fiction_** about real people. As far as I know, none of these events ever happened; any resemblance to any actual events are purely coincidental.  
>  \--


End file.
